Wait for the Sunrise
by Vane Alasse
Summary: The story of Falath, a Gondorian living the harsh realities of the Siege of Minas Tirith during the War of the Ring. CONCLUDED! Drum roll...
1. Anxious Waiting

Wait for the Sunrise by Vané Alasse  
  
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Author's Note:  
  
The Nimrodel poetry is taken directly from Tolkien (The Fellowship of the Ring), while Falath's lullaby is my own composition. The song in the house of healing uses the first line from Tolkien's eagle song from The Return of the King, but I made the rest.  
  
Also, any lines or characters taken from Tolkien were deliberate. I do not claim their invention.  
  
I would love feedback! :)  
  
Enjoy!  
  
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Chapter One The Siege  
  
A crash shook the floor, and a deep boom rumbled through the ground. Dust blew in acrid plumes through the street, casting an artificial blackness. Smoke and ash wafted on the air, adding to the confusion. Clashing metal could be heard below, and screams of desperation. Rhythmical stomping and a resonating beat, as of a thousand drums, pulsed all around, penetrating the gloom with its savage endurance.  
Falath clutched the table as she swayed with the quaking floor beneath her feet. She did not scream; she did not speak at all. This terror must be endured like the others which had come before, and screaming would only add to her anxiety. Her face was white, brazen like stone, and her grey eyes were marbled with tense fear. Weariness traced its aging lines over her young complexion, and youth seemed to vanish in its possession. She had not had the blessing of sleep for many days now. How many she could not count. The hours, the very minutes, came so slowly and stretched for such a length of time that an exact calculation could not be given. Each heaved more weight on the growing grip of despair that pressed hard against her heart. Gondor was falling.  
Soft weeping could be heard in a corner of the dimly lit room. Eerie red light flashed and flickered on the wall. By it the shadows near the base of the wall were momentarily dispersed, and a figure could be seen huddled, limp and whimpering. Falath glanced at it, knowing full well it was her mother. A throb began in her head again. Seeing her mother in this pitiable state was crushing. Was this the same mother who had cuddled her as a child and nurtured her as she grew to womanhood? Was this the same mother who had sung to her songs of long ago, under the sky of stars in the cool nights of summer?  
"It is alright, Atara," said a voice. "They have not broken through. The walls still stand and the city is not taken."  
The young woman who had spoken approached her mother. She reached out her hands to comfort her, and stroked the grey hairs on her mother's head.  
But her mother replied with anguish, "What do you care for my suffering, Brethil? I have tasted bitterness in its most potent form, and yet a little while and I again will take up the cup. And the dregs will not be pleasurable. What do you know of my pain?"  
Brethil backed away in alarm. She strode to the window, glancing at her older sister as she passed the table.  
Falath was fondling one hand in the other, as she had always done when nervous. Her long, white fingers were cold and shaking.  
She shook her head sadly at Brethil. "It is hopeless."  
Brethil nodded. She peered out the window, into the soot and dirt. "Hopeless. Yes, Falath. For all of us."  
Falath did not respond. Another crash rocked the house suddenly. The cupboard tipped and plates and bowls shattered to pieces. Brethil cowered beneath the window, and Falath covered her ears.  
Thick silence then reigned in the room for a while. The stench of battle and fire rose and fell with the hot wind. Whether night or day, it could not be told. The gloom of Mordor hung over the city, black and penetrating. Footsteps thundered wildly. Cries of the dying stabbed the air and were cut short. Falath shuddered.  
"Your brother?" asked her mother from the corner.  
Falath trembled silently by the table. Her brow was creased, and her wet eyes were wild.  
Brethil turned from her mother to her sister. "Firion will not be in open battle," she said softly.  
Falath nodded silently, and Brethil returned to the window.  
"Yet he is in the battle," whispered Falath.  
"He is an archer, sister. Combat is not his position. Besides, he keeps the second gate. The enemy cannot even breach the first. He will not be in danger."  
"Yet if the city's need is dire—"  
"Do not let your mind take such a course, Falath."  
Falath submitted. As long as she could remember she had looked to her younger sister for strength. Brethil was never afraid; she always had a clear mind and steady heart. Today was no different.  
When the siege had begun, so many restless hours before, Brethil had been strong. When their father volunteered to accompany Captain Faramir to reclaim Osgiliath, Brethil had supported him though Falath and her mother had bid him reconsider. Falath remembered embracing her father before he left, knowing he might not come back. He had kissed her forehead and each cheek, as he had done when she was a child. He smiled, and marched willingly to the aid of his country. He did not return. When news reached them of Captain Faramir's desperate retreat with the meager two-thirds of his men, they suspected the worst. When it was confirmed that their father was not among the survivors, melancholy had settled deeply on the family. The mother became sullen and despondent. Despair reached out its painful claws, crushing and breaking their livelihood. And Firion was still in the service of Gondor, for as his livery displayed he was a guard of the city. Falath shook her head violently and brushed away her tears as she imagined for a moment what she would do if her dear brother were killed. Oh, she did not want to face it!  
A little gasp escaped Brethil as she looked outside.  
"What is it?" asked Falath.  
Brethil motioned for her to come to the window. Quickly Falath joined her sister, and together they looked onto the darkened street.  
Footfalls could be heard approaching. Two steady paces and two low voices came closer. Mail jingled with each step. The bleakness seemed to fade for a moment, and the two walkers were revealed.  
One was tall and clothed all in a brilliant white. A staff he bore, and from his face hung a long, white beard. At his side strode a man of slightly lesser stature, though certainly no less dignity. His attire displayed richly an elegant swan on a deep blue backdrop. His ornate helm was silver, and from beneath it flowing hair could be seen. At his side hung a long sword.  
The two men continued down the street. They spoke to one another and hardly glanced at their surroundings. Soon they vanished into the darkness. Gloom fell heavily about the house again.  
"Who are they?" whispered Falath.  
"You know," answered Brethil.  
"Can it be?"  
"Why not?"  
"To think," said Falath. "I have seen Mithrandir and—"  
"And the prince of Dol Amroth," finished Brethil.  
They stood together in awed silence, breathing quickly.  
"Did you see his face, Falath?"  
"Which one?"  
"Prince Imrahil's, of course."  
"I did notice it, yes."  
"Oh, such valour! Such might! Were that I had been born with such noble heritage as his! Did you see it? Could you tell?"  
"Yes. It is as if one had sailed from Numenor to help us in our plight. He is as the kings of old."  
"If tales be true, there is Elven blood in the veins of his folk. For the people of Nimrodel dwelt in that country for a time."  
"Yes, Brethil."  
"The light, did you see it? The glimmer in his eyes? It is of the Eldar, certainly!"  
Brethil twitched with excitement while Falath leaned against the windowsill.  
A voice outside of another onlooker broke softly into song.  
  
Beside the fall of Nimrodel,  
By water clear and cool,  
A voice as falling silver fell  
Into the shining pool.  
  
The lonely voice seemed to quench the gloom. It rang pure and gentle over the ears of those who heard it, reviving hope.  
  
An Elven maid was there of old,  
A shining star by day:  
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,  
Her shoes of silver grey.  
  
Brethil now joined the singer.  
  
A star was bound upon her brows,  
A light was on her hair  
As sun upon the golden boughs  
Of Lórien the fair.  
  
Together their voices wove the ancient lay. Harmony bound the delicate tune, and the verses slipped into the dark and melted away. 


	2. No Looking Back

Wait for the Sunrise by Vané Alasse  
  
Chapter Two No Looking Back  
  
An echoing thud reverberated through the air and earth. Voices could be heard in the first circle of the city shouting orders. Another crash follwed another quake. Brethil ran outside.  
"No! What are you doing?" cried Falath.  
Brethil flashed a smile back at her sister. "They are trying to break the gate. They shall not succeed. Gondor! Gondor!"  
"Brethil, come back inside. Now!"  
"Curse you, evil monsters! Go back to your lairs! Gondor cannot fail now! This city will withstand you!"  
"Brethil! Don't be foolish."  
A thunderous boom rolled through the city.  
"Gondor! Gond-"  
Brethil stopped short. A forth strike fell on the gates. This time a crippling chorus of snapping wood and warping metal followed. Screams rose from below.  
Falath leaned out the door. The giant gates shattered to fragments. Fire and smoke plumed through the gaping hole. She froze in terror.  
The din of battle, the cries of wounded men, and the rush of screeching orcs were lost under the volume of her heartbeat. All other noise was smothered by its banging. It throbbed against the walls of her head, it quaked in her chest, it pulsed in her fingertips. Vainly she tried to soften it by slapping her hands over her ears. Louder it screamed. Her face burned hot and she felt consumed all over as if by flames.  
Brethil's voice came to her as though from many miles away.  
"They have riven the gate."  
Falath grasped the door frame and pressed her head against it. "What can we do now?"  
"I don't know."  
Falath looked up at her sister. "You must come inside, at least. Please?"  
Brethil walked numbly back through the door, and closed it behind her. The young women looked at one another, and without words understood their mutual contemplation. Do we wait here, then, until death takes us?  
"It will not be long in coming," said Brethil.  
"No."  
The roar of war grew louder as the stillness within the house grew stagnant. The same question was pondered monotonously over and over, until Falath became anxious merely because of its redundancy. What shall we do now?  
Shouting could be heard now, coming from not far down the street. Brethil returned to her place at the window.  
"What do you see?" asked Falath.  
"A soldier is approaching. He is knocking on the doors, and urgently running to and fro between the houses."  
"What does he say?"  
"I do not know. But it does not matter, for he will soon be here."  
Falath waited impatiently in anxiousness. She paced the floor softly, wringing her hands.  
The awaited knock came. Brethil walked to answer it.  
"Open in the name of the steward!"  
Brethil opened the door.  
"How many are in this house?" asked the soldier.  
"Three," answered Brethil.  
"You are asked to evacuate to the third level. Speed is everything. Do not burden yourselves with belongings. Do not linger."  
He bowed slightly and turned to leave.  
"Sir," called Falath. "Are many killed below?"  
He stopped and his face grew grim. "Yes, my lady."  
"Will the second gate be breached?"  
"Most probably."  
"It is that bad?" asked Brethil.  
He did not look into her eyes. "Yes."  
Quickly he took his leave and continued to relay the ill news to the other houses on the street.  
"We should go," said Brethil.  
"Yes. You get Atara."  
Brethil walked to her mother and explained the situation to her.  
She sighed. "I will stay here and not flee to false security."  
"But, Atara," said Falath. "We have been ordered to evacuate."  
"Then go. Run if you will; beat the surging wave. But the onslaught will not be long in drowning us all. Yes, even the high fortress will be washed out. The tide of war and hate runs deep."  
"We will not leave you here," said Brethil firmly.  
The noise of battle swelled. Pounding could be heard on the gate. Drums rolled angrily.  
"Atara, time will not wait," stressed Falath. "Come with me; that's it. Take my arm. Steady now. Here we go. Brethil, please lead her. I will go first. Haste is needed."  
"Shall we go through the front door?" asked Brethil.  
"Yes, I think so. The wide street will be easier to maneuver through than the alley," replied Falath.  
"We only postpone death," muttered Brethil.  
"If we give time a chance then hope may deliver us," replied Falath.  
She opened the door and scanned the street. Women and children were moving swiftly to her left, uphill towards the third level.  
She turned to her mother and sister, "Let us be gone."  
Together they walked outside. Falath paused for one second more, brushing the wood lightly with her fingertips to say farewell. How many days had her bare feet danced upon the threshold of this house? Or how often had her childish hands clapped against the familiar grains in the wood? How many fervent tears had been spilt under the moon's gaze on this step? Within a few hours it would lie in a pile of ashes, trodden by foul feet and destroyed with no regard for tender memories.  
Falath pulled once more on the door. It closed with one final thud. She turned from the only home she had known and followed her mother and sister into the way of retreat. Now there could be no looking back. 


	3. We Will Meet Again

Wait for the Sunrise by Vané Alasse  
  
Chapter Three We Will Meet Again  
  
Falath walked ahead of her mother and sister, leading the way up the winding street. They walked as quickly as they could manage, which did not seem quick enough. As they wended higher into the city the street became clogged with others fleeing their homes. Slower and slower they progressed, with the rising heat and cacophony surging closer and closer to their backs. Falath turned around and saw flames licking the first circle of Minas Tirith. And beyond, on the fields of the Pelennor, she saw nothing but blackness and little red flames scattered far and wide. She could not see their enemy, but she could sense it.  
Oh, yes. As soon as they had entered the street, so many slow footsteps behind now, she had felt it. A chill wafting like poisonous vapors. Her hands grew icy cold, and her feet felt hard and dead. The heat of fear swelled in her chest and rang in her head, but the frigidity that began to suffocate her heart took dominance.  
A resounding boom signaled the assault on the second gate. Repeated bangs and crashes followed. Apprehension built in the crowd, and the refugees began to move with more speed and less precision.  
Boom! Boom! The gates shook against the attack. With one last mighty crash they broke apart. Orcs and men from the south spilled through the opening.  
Confusion ensued, and the mass of people began running in erratic courses every which way. Falath and Brethil, with her mother leaning on her arm, crouched together against a tall white wall.  
"We must not stop here," whispered Brethil.  
Falath agreed, "They will be here soon. Let us press on while we may. This is folly, but what other choice do we have? If there be wisdom to follow then I ask that you would open my eyes to see it, for I cannot."  
Her mother looked into her daughter's eyes, and as Falath returned the gaze it seemed that she could see a glimmer of who her mother had been before the siege. Her mother smiled, a true, loving smile.  
"That's my brave girl," she said.  
"On then?" asked Brethil.  
The others nodded, and they began to run up the hill. Swords clashed behind them. Hideous shrieks rose from the monsters at their heels. The enemy was gaining speed. But not without a fight. The men guarding the gate chased their foes up the streets and alleys, wielding their swords valiantly, though hopelessly outnumbered.  
Falath glanced over her shoulder. The attackers were drawing close.  
"Brethil, take this side street. Quickly! I will meet with you soon."  
Brethil stared at her sister in shock. "Where are you going?"  
"To cause a diversion."  
"You will be killed!"  
"Not a rash diversion, Brethil. I'm going to continue up the street. I will meet you at the summit. You cannot travel as quickly, and if I go alone I am more likely to be followed than you who will now be crawling in the shadowed back streets. Please, do as I ask."  
"You know the risk you are taking?" said Brethil.  
"Mine is no more a risk than yours," Falath replied.  
"We will meet again," said her mother, squeezing her daughter's hand.  
"Yes," said Falath. "Farewell." 


	4. Valour Will Be Remembered

Wait for the Sunrise  
  
by Vané Alasse  
  
Chapter Four  
  
Valour Will Not Go Unremembered  
  
The battle was now close behind Falath. Sweat pooled under her eyes and dripped down her back as she ran up the hill. Her hair came loose and slapped rudely against her face. She heard the sound of fighting just behind her, and ducked into an alley way, crouching against the rock wall. The sound of her breathing was loud despite the clangor around her. She saw awful shapes of orcs pass in the street and brave Gondorian men slashing their weapons among them. Nothing came into the alley. Falath became cold and her muscles became tight from sitting still.  
She decided to rise, and entered the street again. All was quiet. The battle had gone elsewhere, and nothing moved on the road. But strewn across the stones were bodies: dead men and orcs. Hesitating she stepped around one, and felt her stomach flutter. She began to shiver all over, and her teeth rattled in her head. She wrapped her arms around herself and ran. She skirted the bodies, trying not to look at the them. She felt she was shaking so hard she would break apart. Her head throbbed.  
Suddenly her foot caught on something, and she tripped and fell. To her horror she landed on a Gondorian soldier. She gasped and tried to rise. But this man was not dead.  
His eyes flickered open, and he breathed heavily.  
"Gondor..." he groaned.  
"Sir," she stuttered, sitting up and moving away from him. "Forgive me."  
His eyes tried to focus on her face, and he saw then that she was not an enemy. No, indeed she was not.  
"Falath?" he breathed.  
She looked at him in disbelief. "How do you know my name?"  
He tried to smile. "That's a strange question."  
"It cannot be--" she whispered. "No!"  
"Where is Atara?" he asked.  
"How come you here? No! No!" she said.  
She took the helmet from his head, wiping his dripping hair from his face. He lifted his hand and gently grasped her arm, giving it a slight squeeze. He tried to rise, but fell back choking.  
"Firion, oh, no." She laid her forehead against his, and tears came to her eyes.  
"Where did you suppose I would be, my sister?"  
"Anywhere but fallen to the ground."  
He sighed. "Then you did not know our need."  
She sat up again, and cradled his face in her hands. "No, I suppose I did not. At least, I did not understand it."  
"How could you?" he said softly.  
"Oh, Firion! You cannot die; you must not. Atara will be broken; she will fall to pieces."  
"Do I look dead, Falath?"  
"Don't play with me. I can see when a man is wounded to death."  
"Then, will you stay by me till death takes me? I do not like to be left alone."  
"Would I leave you? Hard heart! How could you even imagine I would leave you here?"  
"I don't know. Today has not been a normal day. Much comes to mind that should not."  
She held his hand in hers. The gloom about them was deep and isolating.  
"Is this failure, Falath?" he asked after a while.  
She looked into his eyes. "Failure? Nay, I think not. Death is never vain when given for others out of love."  
"Thank you, sister."  
"Shouldn't I be thanking you?" she sighed. "Ah, but how can I? Gondor will, though. Yes, Firion, you will not be forgotten. Your valour will not go unremembered."  
After a while she spoke again. "I saw the white rider today, brother."  
"Did you?"  
"Yes. And the prince Imrahil."  
"Is that so? Then you will know the might which they possess and the calm with which they command?"  
"No. I cannot know that, for I merely saw them pass by me. Though by the way you talk it sounds as if you have experienced their majesty in battle."  
"I have, Falath. And such bravery and courage is not to be lightly mentioned. And the way they give hope to the men! If only you could have seen that, also, Falath. I was, well, I was proud again. I was proud to be a man of Gondor. I was proud to belong to the race of Numenor. In all this blackness, hatred, and cruelty it was hard to feel so. Fear and despair are wicked tools. Yet in the presence of Mithrandir and the prince I was not ashamed to stand and, yes, to even fall for the country I love."  
"Good, brother. I am glad for it."  
"And I am glad to hear you are so strong. Is this verily Falath? Fragile little Falath, who could not look at a rat without shuddering? Here she sits now among a field of dead, lying in their blood. And she speaks to a wounded man, who is already as good as dead? Is this the Falath I know?"  
She smiled as the tears fell from her cheeks.  
"When did such a change come over her?"  
Firion leaned his head back onto the paving stones, staring into the blackness. "You may leave me now, if you will. I am--I am ready to go now. Alone."  
"I will not leave you."  
"I would not have you die alongside me needlessly. The forces will be here soon again. And though I need not fear them for myself, I do fear them for your sake. I would have you see the sun again, if I could."  
"And the moon, yes? And the stars above, in the clear of midnight? Would you also have me hear the wind playing in the trees, or the Anduin splashing its banks?"  
"I would," he said faintly.  
"And how do you expect me to ever find joy in these without you by my side?"  
"Joy? No, my dear sister. I did not say joy. And I will not try to comfort you or myself with idle conversation, for I know no words which bring comfort to the bereaved. But I would have you live, for life is not to be scorned. Even a life of loss and pain is a full life. For loss and pain at a parting signify the ownership of something worth having, and also something worth remembering. You need not be happy for life to be precious. Life is a gift, as is death. Live, and love living. Please?"  
His voice grew thinner with each word, and he breathed will thin, sporadic gasps. As Falath held his hand it grew colder and his face became pallid. His eyes fluttered aimlessly.  
"I will try, Firion."  
He smiled softly, and again they waited in silence. It was ominous, Falath thought, waiting for a moment of uncertainty. How would it happen? What would she do? Where would he go? When life leaves the body where does the soul flee? To peace? To rest? How could she know?  
A song came to her mind and softly she began to hum it. The sweet tune rose and fell among the wreckage. Smoke from one of the many burning buildings wafted in her face and stung her eyes. Salty tears mingled with the ash and smeared against her lips.  
Firion looked at her. "Can you sing it?" he whispered.  
She squeezed his hand, then faintly began to add the words to the ancient lullaby.  
  
Across the sea there lies a shore  
Where silver waves lap evermore;  
And there I will at last meet thee  
Beyond the quaking, churning sea.  
  
When the bright moon bids its farewell  
To rising hill and hidden swell,  
Then I will hasten to that land  
To hold again your cherished hand.  
  
Now, my dear love, lie down and sleep;  
Though the long night be cold and deep  
Still wait for me, till in the skies  
We meet under the warm sunrise.  
  
Firion gasped suddenly and choked painfully.  
"Brother?" asked Falath, trying to help him.  
Weakly came his voice, "Wait for the sunrise, Falath."  
"But it may be so long a wait! And how will I find the way?"  
"No fear," he said softly. "You will know the way. Only--be patient. Wait for--the sunrise."  
Falath looked into his eyes, and slowly the light of life faded and vanished. His face relaxed into a gentle smile and did not move again.  
She released his hand and then the tears fell thickly. She doubled over on her arms and wept. Falling to her side she tucked her knees to her chest, lost in the torrent of grief.  
Soft rain pattered on her neck and splashed on the stones. Lightly it clinked on the metal armor lying scattered over the street. Mists rose from the smoldering city, blurring the darkness with their white clouds. Minas Tirith lay blanketed in a pallid haze. All waited for the morning. All longed for a light to lead them out of their darkness. But none came. 


	5. Sent for the Wounded

Wait for the Sunrise  
  
by Vané Alasse  
  
Chapter Five  
  
Sent for the Wounded  
  
Footsteps approached the place where Falath lay. She could not see their owners, nor did she care to look up so that she might. Whatever was going to happen next would happen, for she had neither the strength nor the will to abate it.  
The footsteps clamored around Falath. She was thankful that at least these men were not orcs. Half of her heart hoped they were Gondorian, while the other wished for death. Were they Southern men?  
"What's this?" she heard a voice say softly. "A woman?"  
Certainly they did not speak as the Haradrim.  
"Is she yet alive?" asked a second voice.  
Falath began to tremble; she realized they were speaking of her. She only wanted to be left alone.  
"Perhaps," said the first man. "I will see. You continue searching."  
The man knelt beside Falath and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. She startled.  
"Easy there. It will be alright. I'm here to help you."  
His touch unnerved her. She began to shiver, wishing to be deserted. The stones beneath her were cold and his hand felt painfully hot.  
"Are you hurt?" he asked.  
Falath did not answer. Was she hurt? Physically she was whole, only her throbbing head and aching muscles ailed her. But these would not long plague her, she knew. Her heart was injured. Emotionally she was wounded nearly to death. It felt as though a spear had pierced her tender frame, and now she lay bleeding on the ground. Yet she would not die from such an infliction. No, that was the worst realization. She would continue to live despite the pain and the loss. The long years of silence spread before her in bitter succession. Would she ever recover?  
"Lady?" came his voice.  
She opened her eyes. Beyond the screen of tears clinging to her eyelashes she could dimly discern his form.  
"My name is Linanor. I am sent from the houses of healing with my comrade, Mellonel, to look for the wounded. Will you come with me?"  
His voice was gentle and calm. She brushed the moisture from her eyes to look at him more clearly. He was robbed in grey, and though he wore no armor a sword hung loosely at his side. His eyes were steady and sure, like one who has seen battle, pain, and death, yet fears them not.  
"I am not wounded," Falath whispered.  
"Nevertheless, I will ask you to come with me, for you are in a battle zone. And I deem you are not fit to escape should danger find you here."  
He held out his hand and smiled kindly.  
She reached to take it, but quickly pulled back her fingers. His hand looked so similar to the lifeless one lying beside her. Abruptly she began to weep again, and her frame shook violently.  
Linanor rubbed her back soothingly. He glanced back and forth between her face and that of the soldier at her side, noticing a striking similarity between them. Then he understood the ailment of the lady.  
"Come, can you stand?" he asked presently.  
Falath did not feel she could, but with his help she rose to her feet. She swayed; he steadied her.  
"Good," he said. "Now try to walk."  
Carefully, slowly, she stepped around the armor and weapons scattered over the stones. His arm was sure, and with each little step she regained more of her confidence.  
Mellonel approached. "I have found none alive here. It appears the battle was very intense at this point, neither side was willing to retreat or surrender. It seems they—"  
Here he was stopped by a gesture from Linanor.  
"Yes, thank you, Mellonel," he said. "We have but one charge on this trip, then. I apologize, lady, I do not remember your name."  
"Falath" she said softly.  
"Ah," said Linanor. "I thought your eyes were especially like the sea. Of course they could not have gone unnoticed."  
"Is now the time for a philological discussion?" asked Mellonel.  
"No, my friend. You are quite right. We linger in an island of calm only recently forgotten. It will soon see trouble again, as does most of the city. Come, Falath, will you be able to walk?"  
"If I must," she replied.  
"Good," said Linanor.  
They proceeded up the street as speedily as possible. In places smoke wafted thickly, blinding them temporarily. The clouds above glowed red from the fires, and the penetrating blackness pervaded. As they walked Mellonel kept his hand near the hilt of his sword, ready to unsheathe it at any sign of attack. Linanor held Falath's hand and helped her as they progressed.  
Falath felt waves of fatigue over-taking her. She was emotionally worn, and she had not enough mental will to ask her body to obey her wishes. She tripped often. The farther they went the more tired she became. Her sense of vision was blurred; she followed Linanor's leading without question and without worry. For she could not worry now. It seemed that all need for it had passed away when Firion had breathed his last. She did not care if she should die, and it seemed most probable to her that her mother and sister were already dead. What a horror it was, she thought, to be alive without a desire to be so. She wished that she could rest in the uncertain oblivion of death. As a gift of the One to man, death began to appear ever more desirable.  
They turned sometimes from their path to circumnavigate burning buildings. When the noise of clashing swords was heard they again moved aside. Despite their preparedness for a battle if it became unavoidable, Linanor and Mellonel did not desire to be caught unnecessarily.  
At last the wall of the third city circle rose before them. Tall and smooth was its flank, with no footholds for climbing. Its summit was high and its sides invincible. No sound could be heard in the immediate area, but from the distance the sound of shouting and fighting was carried by the stinging wind.  
Linanor peered around the edge of the last house on the street. Nothing moved. There was nothing in sight save a crawling mist and a muddy trickle of water passing before their feet.  
A whistle rose near Falath and she started in surprise. Turning her head sharply to Linanor she saw him whistle again. Mellonel perceived the confusion on her face and smiled at her comfortingly, as if to say all was well. The whistle echoed softly on the air and then floated away. A tense stillness fell on the group, and Falath shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She felt strangely nervous of standing and not moving. Her heart fluttered aimlessly in her chest and her fingers twitched with anxiousness.  
A soft tapping noise fell to their ears from above. Once Falath heard it, and then a second time. Now a slithering sound followed. Linanor smiled and pointed to the wall. Looking carefully through the mist Falath saw a grey rope sliding from the top of the wall and wending its way down to them. Each time the end hit the wall it emitted a gentle slap. Very soon it hung only a few feet from the ground.  
Cautiously and quickly Linanor walked to grasp the rope. Motioning for Falath to join him he skillfully tied the rope's end into a wide loop. He slipped it over Falath head and helped her to sit in it as if it were a swing. He silently showed her how to place her hands over the knot and pressing his hands over hers explained she much grasp firmly.  
"Ready?" he whispered.  
She shook her head.  
"No fear," he replied. "Hold tightly and you will arrive safely at the top." Then he jerked the rope slightly and backed away.  
Falath inhaled quickly as she was lifted from the ground. Her feet dangled and became icy cold as the blood rushed to the vital areas of her body. She pressed her forehead against the knot. Her neck ached and the rope was tight beneath her. The palms of her hands became sweaty, for a fear of falling grew steadily as she rose. The rope swung around unexpectedly and caused her knee to crash against the wall. A gasp of pain escaped her lips and her hands slipped.  
"Hold on!" came a voice from above.  
Despite her fright she obeyed. The coarse rope scratched her palms and planted tiny splinters in her skin. She held her breath.  
Feeling a hand on her shoulder, Falath glanced up. The face of a young citadel guard smiled at her. She had reached the top.  
"Take my hand," he said.  
She tried to let go but found she could not. He did not hesitate, but with the aid of another soldier took her wrists and lifted her over the top of the wall. She shrunk against the white paving stones, glad to feel the solid ground beneath her once again.  
The guard tossed the rope over and soon began pulling. Mellonel appeared over the edge. Linanor quickly followed.  
Linanor looked at the guard and thanked him.  
"So you have made it back alive again?" the guard asked playfully. "Hasten to the houses of healing, for they are in need of your presence."  
Linanor nodded and helped Falath rise to her feet. Then they continued on their way.  
Once a fair distance from the wall they paused to rest. Falath sank against a cool, brick wall. Here eyes closed and she tried to breathe normally. Twice she nearly fell asleep, but was wakened by a gentle tap on her shoulder.  
Linanor smiled. "Should you like to be carried?"  
Falath coughed and weakly responded that she would rather walk.  
"Do we take her all the way?" asked Mellonel.  
"Can we leave her here?" replied Linanor.  
"I suppose not. Let us go."  
They set off again. Now inside the safety of a secured level of Minas Tirith they no longer traveled with caution. Half way to the fourth gate Falath stumbled and did not have the strength to rise again. Linanor did not ask this time, but gathered her into his arms and carried her.  
Falath thought she was dreaming. She relaxed entirely, lying limp in his grasp. He supported her and carried her higher and higher into the city. The rhythmical pulse of his heartbeat calmed her, and every anxiety fled.  
In less than an hour they arrived at the houses of healing. Linanor laid Falath down on a blanket beneath a window, for all the beds were taken. Then he and Mellonel hurried to their duties. Falath fell fast asleep on the ground, thankful for a place to rest from movement and to find peace in slumber. The pain of loss and the fear of war were forgotten in quiet sleep. 


	6. Hopeless

Wait for the Sunrise  
  
by Vané Alasse  
  
Chapter Six  
  
Hopeless  
  
Falath woke from sleep and glanced around the room, striving to remember where she was.  
All around the room wounded men and women were laid on beds. The room was crowded. Groans and the sound of heavy breathing filled the air. Soft commotion could be heard from a distance away. Men and women dressed in white and grey walked calmly around the injured, aiding them in every way possible.  
Then she remembered. The events of the last hours flooded her memory. Her head began to ache again, and her back was sore from lying on the ground.  
Somehow lying still was difficult. Perhaps walking would calm her mind. Slowly she rose to her feet.  
Falath began to wander aimlessly through the rooms. She stepped carefully around the wounded, trying not to look at the faces. But some eyes were unavoidable. They were cold as ice and glared with a frozen intensity. These faces were white and their bodies were racked by sudden bouts of shivering. Many suffered from this ailment.  
Falath was numb and cold in spirit, and could not hush the bitter nagging voice in her head which blandly said, "Gondor will fall." Her father and brother were dead, killed by the malice of the dark lord. Doubtless her sister and mother had not reached the security of the third level, if it was yet a stronghold. She was now alone.  
Finding a door leading outside Falath stepped into the open air. A cold wind splashed against her face, bringing moisture to her eyes. Lightly she stepped along the porch. A staircase lead downward and she took it. Her feet made little noise as she moved from one step to the next, and her fingertips brushed against the cool rock banister.  
At the bottom of the steps lay a garden. The bushes and trees swayed mournfully in the chill wind. The branches and leaves rustled in a lonely commotion.  
Behind her Falath heard a voice say her name. She turned.  
Linanor was walking through the rows of swaying plants. He smiled.  
"You are awake?"  
Falath nodded.  
Linanor stopped beside Falath and looked out over the city and the fields beyond. The wind tossed his hair.  
"It has been a long time," he said.  
"What?" asked Falath.  
"A long battle, a long war. And still the shadow holds sway. I wish we had ships to flee from this storm, as they did long ago."  
"Yet Numenor was consumed by the waves, and but a few survived in their ships," replied Falath.  
Linanor looked at her. "Yes, that is so. And so will Gondor be consumed if help does not quickly come."  
"There will be no survivors this time," whispered Falath.  
Her face was pale and her eyes cold as she spoke. She did not make any movement, but her skirt whipped around her legs and her dark hair rippled behind her in the gusts of wind.  
"Do not despair, Falath," said Linanor. "Help may yet come."  
She did not answer. It seemed hopeless to her. She had endured the torture of siege and experienced the gnawing of rampant fear. The cruel workings of the generation of hatred bred by the foul tyrant of the east were yet very present. The fallen maia would not be fool enough to suffer the men of the West a victory. Even if they could defeat the foes before them, it would be a short-lived conquest. Surely Sauron's visible armies, though enough to make an end for the people of Elendil, were but a taste of the masses lurking behind the mountains of ash. True victory was impossible. The battle was folly. Men were throwing their lives away on a campaign that must surely fail. There was no hope now.  
"Linanor, you are requested inside," called a voice.  
Falath's gaze turned to the stairs. There stood Mellonel, motioning for Linanor to follow him.  
"The warden wishes to speak to you, and you, Falath," said Mellonel.  
She followed Linanor up the stairs, methodically counting each step. All seemed grey. Dry leaves scuffled on the bare steps and swirled in little eddies. They crunched under Linanor's feet. To her they resembled the remnants of of Gondor beaten to dust. The crackling pieces of leaves were caught by the wind and carried away, just as the last people of Gondor would vanish.  
Once inside the house they were met by the warden. Though his facial expression was worried, he spoke in a low, calm voice.  
"Linanor, messengers have arrived saying we are to make ready a birth for our lord Faramir. He is returning from the Rath Dínen, where they say he has been saved from an untimely demise."  
Linanor looked at the warden suspiciously. "I had heard the lord Faramir was ill. Has his condition worsened?"  
"You refer to my last statement?"  
Linanor nodded.  
"Not his illness; no. What shall I say? He was thrust before death's grasp and drawn back from thence by a merciful hand. And further, though I am not at liberty to express the reasons surrounding the matter, our captain is now also our steward."  
Falath drew a quick breath.  
"Lord Denethor is dead?" asked Linanor in a low voice.  
"I am afraid it is so," returned the warden.  
"Who accompanies the bier?"  
"Mithrandir, though do not let it be generally known. Also the perian from the north. He has played a valiant role in the rescue of our lord."  
"You play at riddles, my lord warden. Can you not speak more plainly?" asked Linanor.  
The warden smiled, then his face relaxed into its customary anxiousness. "Not here; not now. But you will not need to wait long to have your answers. They will be here shortly after dawn, if such a time exists in this hateful gloom. Make haste in your preparations."  
Linanor nodded and walked resolutely from the room with Mellonel.  
The warden turned his attention to Falath.  
"Linanor has told me he found you in the second circle of the city. Are you injured?"  
"No, my lord," she replied.  
"What is your name?"  
"Falath, sir."  
"Falath? Indeed? Who is your father?"  
Her voice came very softly. "Eärnur, son of Eärathor. But he did not return from the battle to reclaim Osgiliath."  
He nodded slightly, his face grim and his eyes troubled. Falath watched him closely. He seemed to be deep in thought. Suddenly his eyes turned to hers and he nodded resolutely.  
"My sympathies, Falath."  
The lines of his face formed into a tired smile. "I may have news for you that is not sad. Follow me." 


	7. Our Land Will Be Free Again

Please notice I've changed the Elvish for "mother" from Atara to Naneth, which is really the correct form (I hope). I wish I had known that before I posted the other chapters, but I'll try to fix them also now. Vané Alasse   
  
A/N I'm not sure this chapter is as good as I'd wanted; I've really struggled with it. Just when I thought it was done I had to go change something... Argh. Oh well, here it is... Vane Alasse  
  
Wait for the Sunrise  
  
by Vané Alasse  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
Our Land Will Be Free Again  
  
Falath walked behind the warden in a daze. Her steps were short and she was dizzy from lack of restful sleep. Each time she closed her eyes Firion's cold, pale face flashed against a screen of blackness. Her thoughts wandered, and memory played evil games with her mind.  
Guilt began to foment in her conscience. She saw her brother lying on the street, his head against the paving stones. Scattered armour and the dead lay all around him. Each time her eyes closed the scene expanded. She had left him there, alone. She had abandonded him.  
The warden led the way through a maze of rooms and hallways. They took a stair down to the ground. At last they reached a heavy wooden door, and the warden stopped. As he opened it the hinges groaned. Falath followed him as they passed beneath the doorframe and into a dimly lit room.  
Standing and sitting around the floor were women and children. Most did not seem to notice the arrival of the warden. In the far corner a young woman sat on the windowsill. The warden pointed her out to Falath.  
"Do you know her?" he asked quietly.  
Falath looked at her earnestly, but she could not properly discern her features. She shook her head.  
At that moment the young woman turned her head around. She gave a little gasp and jumped to her feet.  
"Falath!" she exclaimed, and began to run to her.  
Falath took a step backward.  
"Falath! Oh, Falath! It is me, Brethil!" she cried, opening her arms to her sister.  
Falath fell against her shoulder. Brethil laughed softly, but Falath began to weep.  
"Hush," said Brethil. "You needn't cry. We are here, see. Naneth is here also. We made it, Falath. We are all safe now."  
Falath felt her mother wrap her arms around her and gently kiss her cheek. Tears fell from her eyes, and she thought of Firion. But she had not the courage to tell them now, sadness could wait. For now they were together again, and that was the most important consideration.  
Suddenly a noise sounded through the air. It penetrated the room and vibrated the floor.  
Everyone stirred and commotion broke out.  
The warden hurried to the window.  
"The horns of Rohan!" he cried. "The Rohirrim have come to our aid!"  
"Rohan? The horse lords have come?" asked Brethil.  
They drew close to the window. The view was stunning.  
Over the black fields of the Pelennor the armies were spread everywhere, like black maggots greedy to devour a carcass. But far in the distance over the edge of the plain the calvary of the north was marshaled.  
On the plains line after line of soldiers in flashing mail mounted a sea of restless horses. The sound of the horns bellowed louder and filled the air with a thick, warm resonance. In one united motion the calvary began to charge, rippling over the Pelennor like a golden wave. The thundering of hooves and battle cries of the riders melded together into a churning herald of hope.  
Shouts of relief and happiness erupted sporadically through the room. The horse masters had fulfilled their oaths.  
Amidst the commotion around her, Falath felt frozen in time. She could hardly comprehend everything. Shouts of relief and happiness erupted sporadically from the house as the news spread from one room to the next.  
"Look!" shouted one of the children. "The sun!"  
It was true. Over the eastern hills of shadow pure rays of sunlight were piercing through the evil haze. They dashed asunder the far-reaching gloom. The forces of Mordor on the fields quavered before the sun's stunning brilliance. In the city streets of Minas Tirith the fell creatures of darkness trembled before the blazing curtains of light cascading over the land. Warmth spread from housetop to housetop as hope was rekindled in the hearts of everyone fighting for the survival of the people of the West.  
A lance of golden light fell before Falath's face. Warm sunlight danced on the wall. It reflected in Falath's eyes and darted playfully over her hands. Falling in brilliant shafts through the darkness it glittered on the dust hanging in the air.  
A voice somewhere in the room broke into singing.  
  
Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor!  
The sun has come to drive away terror,  
And the pureness of dawn will cleanse us all.  
  
Sing now, and rejoice!  
For the sun has come to save us!  
  
Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor!  
The beams of hope shine once more upon you.  
Your land is fair and will be free again.  
  
Sing now, and rejoice!  
At long last the sunrise has come!  
  
THE END   
  
Replies to reviews:  
  
Harpie: Oh no! I checked so carefully for spelling, too. Nuts! Oh well, thanks for telling me. And for faithfully reading each chapter. :)  
  
Lossenrhos: Thanks for reading this! I really appreciate all your reviews; you're very honest and helpful, not to mention encouraging. I was so excited when you found my stuff here; you were my favorite reviewer on Barrowdowns. Thanks!  
  
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Elvenwood: I like your name! (The Annoying Little Freak nic made me laugh . . .) Please do check out my other stuff... it's mostly poetry, but I do have an Arwen and Aragorn tale (One Last Time). If you're interested my friend and I are co-authoring a post-RotK story (Seven Stars Set in a Silver Sea) about the children of Arwen/Aragorn, Eowyn/Farmir, Legolas/wife (sorry, no name yet), and a mystery that is changing their lives. (I'm really bad at summaries, but I think it's a pretty good story. Based on the reviews, Legolas's son seems to be the high-point...)  
  
Mysterious Jedi: Thanks for reviewing! Please keep reading. :)  
  
Beam-y: "Not dear, sweet, inocent Falath!" I love it... :) Thanks for reviewing! (And for reviewing my other stuff also. Did you know you reviewed I Will Be The One, Silent Pain, and One Last Time twice? Nothing wrong with that, I love hearing from you!)  
  
Thank you all for reading my story! I love hearing what you think. :)  
  
Vané Alasse 


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